Here Comes the Sun
by heystella
Summary: "Reminds you of your mom's funeral, doesn't it?" Kurt may be more upset than he lets on. Kurt and mother gen, K/Bl. Spoilers for 2x16 Original Song.


**Title:** Here Comes the Sun (1/1)  
**by:** kaiyrah  
**Fandom:** Glee  
**Characters/Pairs:** Kurt and his mother gen, Kurt/Blaine  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** ~2600  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** Mama Hummel-related angst. Spoilers through 2x16.  
**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Summary:** "Reminds you of your mom's funeral, doesn't it?" Kurt may be more upset than he lets on.  
**A/N:** Fill for the Beatles prompt on the k_b LJ prompt post.  
**Download:** You've probably already heard these songs at one point or another, but I've provided the link for the mini mix that goes with this fic. All are Beatles Songs, and the version of "Here Comes the Sun" that I've included is done by Cobaingel on Youtube.  
http : / / w w w . sendspace . com/file/ujd4av (remove spaces)

* * *

_Jai guru deva om._

If Kurt closes his eyes and concentrates, he can still hear it, a voice clear as bells, high pitched, soft and demure. It's distant, far off from this world in a trove of flashbacks he can only grasp from the deep recesses of his mind, but still he is so intimately familiar with it that every note passing through his ears is like a comforting embrace. He imagines it's what angels would sound like if he were a believer.

They say that no one can remember anything in their first three years of life. He fully believes that - because in a sense, he doesn't really _remember_ the voice. He doesn't think back to a specific period of time when he first heard it - it's just always been a part of him, already familiar even when he did begin to form those concrete memories, as if it was some thing that transcended the physical realm. It's about as spiritual as he allows himself to be.

He remembers the old rocking chair with the crocheted cover, the yarn ratting up with the tassels unfurling. A thin pair of arms would wrap around him, pull him back to sit against his mother's warm chest. He remembers the scarlet throw blanket, plush and velvety under his tiny fingertips.

It's one of his earliest memories. She would put the cassette in the boom box and push play, letting the soft guitar and sitar riffs wash over them as they rocked back and forth on the wooden chair. He would cling to her arms, first echoing the _oohs_ of the backing choir. She would whisper the words in his ears. Then he would sing along with her. He remembers how she would tuck the crown of his head under her chin, how he could feel the hum of song vibrations in her throat, pressed just so against his hair. The hum that would then travel down from the back of his head to every inch of his body, sliding back to his throat, as if their body contact alone had given him a voice.

_Nothing's gonna change my world,  
Nothing's gonna change my world._

Kurt remembers the feel of the kitchen whenever she baked. The heavy, powdery scent of the flour. The cracking of egg shells when she poured the yolks in. The lumpy bits of sugar, sifting through his fingers like grains in a sandglass. How she would laugh and swat at Burt's hands when he added a touch too much butter. How the dough would stretch and break off from the rolling pin before Kurt and Burt could even lay it out over the pan, and how she would reprimand them with a smile on her face.

_Love, love me do,  
You know I love you._

The dry, bluesy harmonica rings into his ears, still as familiar as ever. His father would whistle the tune while he planted the filling inside the dough. His mother would sing along, laying strips over the filling, crossing them every so often, giggling when her husband would kiss her cheek. Kurt remembers watching his parents as they chased each other around the kitchen, flinging handfuls of ingredients at each other, completely disregarding Elizabeth's normal spic-and-span household policy.

It's still very clear in his mind, the image of his mother feeding Burt forkfuls of dessert. His father would complain about her strange habits, but his soft smile always betrayed his words. Kurt would sit at the counter, fondly watching the way they talked, the way they hugged. Some day, he always told himself. Some day he would find someone like that.

His mother always said that one could taste the emotions of the chef in their cooking.

Unsurprisingly, her rhubarb pie was always sweet.

_Someone to love,  
Someone like you._

He had not been read to as a child.

He had told this to his classmates and teachers growing up, and they had all been appalled. They would make derisive comments about Burt's and Elizabeth's parenting skills. _Don't they care about his growth? What of his language development? What kind of household do they expect to have with such abysmal care?_

And Kurt had told them, in the most dignified way that an eight-year-old could, to shut it. His mother didn't need to read silly books that gave him limited involvement. He was more involved in his own learning than any other child could hope to be.

Every night, just before bed, she would put a cassette in the boom box and play her favorite music. Together they would sit on the floor and draw whatever came to mind. She would sing to him the lyrics to all of her favorite songs, her voice lilting and beautiful, and he would follow, his vocals not quite so strong yet, and the crayons in his small fingers would dance across the page. He would draw yellow submarines and lonely hearts club bands.

_Draw what you feel when you listen to these songs,_ she told him. _Don't ever hold yourself back._

One drawing he made featured a glowing woman reaching her hand out to a dark crowd. Elizabeth had said that it was the most beautiful piece she had ever seen from him. He was so proud. He would forever remember the vanilla scent of her lipstick lingering on his brow after she kissed him that night. He would forever remember using his sleeve to rub off the residue, only because he didn't want the oils to sink into his skin.

He would forever remember violently sobbing into his pillow the next night, wishing that he had never wiped it off in the first place. If he left it, maybe his father wouldn't have brought the news of the car crash that ripped her away from them. If he had left it, maybe she would still be there, holding him close and singing the songs that they both loved so much.

He still keeps that drawing in his wallet, immaculately folded behind his driver's license.

_Speaking words of wisdom,  
Let it be._

Even today, it's somewhat hard to believe that his mother is dead. It's only times like these when he consciously reminds himself - oh, she's gone. And he breaks out that old box and the memories rush out from the old, crackling audio and the wildly colored labels on those cassettes. When his father was in the hospital, Kurt had locked himself in his room and listened to those tapes nonstop - when visiting hours were over, in any case.

They spend the walk back to campus from Pavarotti's gravesite in complete silence. Blaine's fingers curl around his, offering his wordless comfort. Kurt looks down at their joined hands, and he remembers distinctly how his father had taken his much-smaller hand and led him to his mother's grave. How he wanted his father to talk to him, to assert that the world wasn't over now that she was gone.

The fingers of his free hand rest in his pocket and he grazes something plastic and rectangular. He pulls the tape out from his coat, watching the light beam off from its corners as the sun peeks in and out of the clouds. A sharp inhale. Blaine's fingers twitch slightly, and Kurt tries to fight the sudden crest of melancholy creeping into his chest and the backs of his eyes.

He'd already cried over a bird last week. The last thing he wants to do is cry over a damn cassette tape.

"Oh," he laughs uneasily. "I must have forgotten this was in there."

He blatantly ignores the way Blaine's eyes pierce into him, studying him, reading him.

When they arrive back inside the halls, Blaine walks ahead, leading him to some unknown destination. He mindlessly follows, his thoughts still drawn to the tape stowed in his pocket. Last week was all over the place - sadness from Pavarotti's death to newfound happiness with Blaine to disappointment from losing Regionals - and true to his reaction to high stress periods, his mind focuses on the tape as if it can tell him how to cope with everything, as if it can give him the answers to everything he's ever questioned.

It's probably really stupid to place such a burden on a dusty, old inanimate object, but it makes him feel better. Almost. Sort of.

He blinks when they come to a stop, and Blaine's pushing him to sit down on a couch. They're in one of the commons now, and his eyes wander to the piano in the corner, and he thinks back to Blaine chasing him around this very room during their "Baby, It's Cold Outside" duet. Blaine settles down next to him, and Kurt frowns when he notices the cassette in Blaine's hand. When did he take it?

His boyfriend holds up the tape and rattles it just so. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He takes the tape from Blaine, his fingers running over the edges, avoiding the ridges of the inner plastic discs, a wry smile curling his lip at the sudden emergence of a memory. "Once when I was younger, I thought it would be funny to take the tape strip out. Luckily my mom came in before I did much damage. She was so angry. I can still see her now, jabbing a pencil eraser into the spool, trying to wind it back in."

A look around the room alerts him of a boom box hidden underneath the piano bench. He gets up to pull it out and nestles the cassette into the tape door, and he collapses right there on the floor next to the player.

As soon as the music starts filtering through the speakers, he closes his eyes. That sharp sound of the pedal guitar swells, the dissonant three-part harmony takes him back to Lima, to Gethsemani. Takes him back several years.

Takes him back to his mother's casket, slowly lowering.

His eyes were flooded, the grave was blurry in front of him. Couldn't see where he was supposed to throw the rose. He tossed it blindly, hoping it would land. Hoping she would take it with her, wherever her soul was going.

_Please don't wear red tonight,  
This is what I said tonight.  
For red is the color that will make me blue,  
In spite of you, it's true._

The vocals die down, and the guitar tapers off as well, and for several seconds, all he hears is white noise. That must be it. No more songs on this side. He leans over to press the stop button with a definitive _click_ and leans back against the wall again. Blaine's sitting a few feet away from him, also on the floor, hands folded in his lap.

Kurt draws his knees up to his chest. "John Lennon was really close to his mother. He was shocked badly when she died. He ended up writing quite a few songs about her - some said that this song was one of them. In a later interview, he denied it, and he said that it was actually supposed to be a rewrite of 'This Boy.'" He gives Blaine a shaky smile. "I think I like the first story better."

Blaine scoots closer, placing a comforting hand on Kurt's knee. "It's okay to think about her."

"I guess I'm just... used to keeping my sentimental side under wraps. Especially after I tried to tell Finn to sell his father's chair last year." When Blaine frowns at him, Kurt shakes his head gently.

"I don't think about her often. Not because I don't want to... But I can't. At least not until something stressful happens. Like how my dad and Finn were becoming closer last year. Or Dad's heart attack. The fact that I rarely think about her makes our memories that much more potent."

His hand seeks Blaine's on top of his knee, lacing their fingers together. He looks up and blinks rapidly to keep the tears at bay. "It's my own way of coping. I don't really miss her, because... this is going to sound insane, but a part of me still refuses to believe that she's dead. I mean, I saw them bury her. But whenever I'm feeling upset and I listen to the tapes, I can't help but think that if I just turn around, she'll still be there to hug me and tell me that everything's going to be all right."

Tears roll down his cheeks one by one, and he reaches up to dash them away, but it's too late - everything is out there now. Blaine's pulling him into his arms, and he falls against him perfectly, his face buried in his boyfriend's shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but Blaine just gently pats the back of his head and whispers gentle reassurances in his ear. "I know I should forget her, for Dad's and Carole's sake, but -"

Blaine shakes his head. "That's the last thing they want you to do, Kurt. Believe me. Your dad and Carole both know how important your mom is to you. You shouldn't forget her - you miss her, and that's normal. But Kurt - Kurt?"

He sniffs, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm listening."

"I'm sure she wouldn't want you to think of her only when you're having a hard time. I'm sure she'd want you to show her that you're happy. Don't you think so?"

It takes a while for him to respond, but finally he nods. After rocking back and forth for several minutes, he slides his arms up around Blaine to ease into a more comfortable position. Their combined body heat is strangely calming, and his sniffles and hiccups slowly begin to subside.

So much that when Blaine holds his shoulders at a distance to disentangle their forms, Kurt's throat lets out a sound not unlike a whining puppy at the broken contact. Blaine's face is apologetic as he asks, "When was the last time you visited your mom?"

Kurt pauses to think. Oh god. Was it really so long ago that he can't remember anymore? "...Last June, I believe. For her birthday."

Blaine smiles softly. "Been a while, huh? Okay. Let's go see her this weekend. I... I want to meet her."

He looks at Blaine, really looks at him, and suddenly his lungs feel constricted. Underneath the strong facade, Blaine's eyes are pleading - not begging necessarily, but desperately aching for that approval. The bond between Kurt and Elizabeth is sacred, and if Kurt agrees to let him in, it means that he just trusts him that much. He trusts him with a shoe box full of cassettes and fond remembrance. He trusts him with some of his life's most joyous and painful memories.

The answer already sweet on his tongue, he agrees, and he watches the relief break onto Blaine's face, and his heart swells again at the thought that Blaine _wants_ to share those memories with him. He _wants_ to become involved with Kurt's childhood, with his kind and encouraging mother. He _wants_ to actively slot himself into that part of Kurt's life, rather than push it to the wayside like most others would be inclined to do.

He cares that much. It makes Kurt's heart skip in the best way possible.

Then he's pulled up by the arm to sit on the piano bench, and he stumbles a bit as Blaine settles to his left, his fingertips curved over the keys in a jazzy rendition of a George Harrison number. Blaine's hands - short, not quite stocky but not slender - are not the coveted hands that Kurt's piano teacher had gushed about when he was younger, but it doesn't matter because what he's hearing is gorgeous.

"I don't claim to be as good as your mom at covering Beatles songs," Blaine says, and he gives Kurt a quick, tender glance as he takes his right hand off the keys. "And I'm not trying to substitute her in any way. But if she made you happy in the past with these songs, I want to continue that tradition."

_I want to continue to make you happy_, he doesn't say, but Kurt understands him completely.

He smiles at Blaine and laces their fingers together, and his right hand picks up the melody right from where Blaine left off. It's almost poetic, the way Blaine's shorter, olive fingers dance across the left hand notes while Kurt's longer, pale fingers arch over the right hand keys. It's a strange sound. Their piano flavorings are different - Blaine's deliberated improvisations with deep rumbling chords should clash with Kurt's more classical, clean approach punctuated with smooth trills. It shouldn't work, but it does.

When their voices chime in to their joined song in perfect harmony, it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

_Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces,  
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here.  
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,  
and I say it's all right._

end.


End file.
